by Lou Cove
The table turns light and easy until Papa makes me read the poem I wrote last year. He had a local artist illustrate and frame it. I was smitten by that thoughtful attention but blush at this. “Off you go,” he prods. “Wait until you hear this. Louis is turning into a real writer.”
I return with the framed poem. Papa smiles, gives an encouraging nod. You’re making me proud. Now show everyone else how proud I can be.
“When I’m Lonely,” I begin softly.
“Louder!” Uncle Rick says.
“When I’m lonely I sit on my bunk bed and count my one hundred and forty baseball cards. I lay on the floor when I’m supposed to clean my room. I think of why I have no friends; I think of the same one hundred reasons, then I’m back to where I started from. I thumb through my dictionary or an astronomy book—the stars seem lonely too. I look for a toy I know I lost, or sit on my old tricycle. Sometimes I walk out of my room and let my mom scream at me…” I pause here.
“Go on,” Papa says, eyes closed, listening with intent.
“I walk out of my room and let my mom scream at me about why I should be cleaning my room. Sometimes I’m lonely when I’m in school and want someone to help me with a story. I’m lonely when I’m the slowest boy in the class.” I lay the poem on the table to indicate this is the end. It’s over.
“My Louis!” Grandma Wini nearly shrieks. “That is simply mahvelous. Come here! Come here this instant!” she calls, not waiting, lifting from her chair and smothering me against her soft chest in front of the group. “Oy gottenyu. I’m going to die right here.”
The others offer gentle applause. Amanda rolls her eyes. David says, “I’m lonely, too!” searching the room for a response.
Howie leans forward to me and points at my heart: “You have two superpowers in your corner, niño: that creative spark … and that grandmother. That’s some serious unconditional love stuff right there. I’ve got a jealousy hard-on for that.”
“I think that … that was so terribly sad,” says Carly as the table quiets down. “It makes me want to cry.”
Papa frowns. “Well, that’s what makes it a good poem. It evokes some emotion.”
Carly stares at me. “But I just think of you, up there, all alone, trying to keep yourself busy, but doing the same things over and over. Things that won’t make the feeling go away.” I glance at Grandma Wini who ponders this interpretation with a confused expression. “I think that may be the saddest poem I ever heard,” Carly says, her eyes fixed on mine.
She’s right. They’re celebrating it, but no one really listened. Well, almost no one.
“It’s the artistry that moves me,” says Papa. “We all feel lonely now and then. But Louis says it so well.”
“Where was I?” Uli asks. “I would’ve come over!”
Everybody laughs except me and Carly, our eyes still locked. I would feel bad over and over again just to have her attention like this. To be known as I am, rather than as I am wished to be.
Guests are beginning to stir. Mama, Enid, and Leslie go to the kitchen and return with steamy platters, gravy boats, bubbled-over dutch ovens and pink and green terrines—more than anyone could imagine would fit in our tiny kitchen or our stomachs.
The chink of silver on china fills the room, and the rustle of multiple conversations rises to fill the awkward spaces. Mama and Papa’s dinner is alternately familiar and bizarre. Most of the adults compliment them, oohing and aahing over the variations, but the kids wait for the turkey and cranberry sauce, even if the latter is, they will discover, laced with unwelcome additions: candied ginger and almond slivers.
“This meal is far fucking out,” Howie says through a huge mouthful.
“Mrs. Cove, your salad is divine,” Glovey Butler croaks from her end of the table. “You must share the recipe with Johnny so he can make it for us sometime.”
A warm blush fills Grandma Wini’s face and she begins to list the ingredients—mandarin oranges, water chestnuts—but one of the other guests cuts her off. “So, our friends from California here must have some strong feelings about the defeat of Proposition 6, I assume?”
“What’s Proposition 6?” Amanda asks, always magnetically drawn to the third rail.
Mama and Papa lock eyes. They both look at Glovey Butler, then back at one another. I sense that this is it: the conversation they never wanted to have with her.
“It was a terrible thing, love,” Carly says to Amanda. “California voters were asked to ban gay and lesbian people from teaching in the public schools. They called it the Briggs Initiative and, thankfully, it failed.”
“You know you’re living in the Twilight Zone when Ronald Reagan comes to the defense of the gay movement,” Steve adds.
“Mmmmm, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Howie answers. “He didn’t defend gays. I’m sure he would have been very happy not to have them teaching in public schools. He just made sure that fucking Briggs didn’t end up governor. Self-interest, all the way.”
“California probably just avoided its own version of Kristallnacht,” Frank says, uncharacteristically serious.
“A little extreme, don’t you think? Comparing the plights of Jews and gays…” Grandma Charlotte says.
“Oy. And away we go…” Uncle Mo pulls out a green cigar to light between courses.
Mama shifts nervously in her seat. Papa keeps opening his mouth as if to speak but can’t seem to get anything out. He’s torn, wanting to join the conversation but also wanting to end it. His face turns deep red as he drinks more wine.
“I don’t think so,” Glovey Butler says, dropping her silver to her china plate with a definitive clang. “Just look at what happened in Dade County with Anita Bryant.”
“Miss Oklahoma?” Gramps asks.
“Miss orange juice huckster turned zealot! She’s a closet Nazi if ever I saw one.” Again Glovey renders the group speechless. Even the kids, who have no idea what’s being discussed, can feel the temperature of the room drop by ten degrees. Everyone stares at Glovey, who picks up her utensils once again and begins to carve into the turkey Mama has just placed before her. “You know,” she creaks, “some of my best friends are homos.”
“Yeah!” Howie cheers. Mama chokes on her wine. Papa grins happily, shoulders releasing as he leans back in his chair. He gives Glovey an almost imperceptible knowing wink and we realize, all at once, that the cranky old doyenne next door is just an act.
“I prefer ‘queen,’ myself,” Frank replies. He sounds indignant, but when I turn to face him I see a wet smile quivering below his bristly ’stache.
The banter continues but I’m fixated on the look of silent love my mother is giving my father. He was right. This was the solution, and his tendency toward chaos has paid off. Glovey isn’t a homophobe and Frank isn’t her enemy. She wants the neighborhood to look one way, on the outside. But behind closed doors, everything is on the table.
Uncle Rick is laughing, waving a finger at Howie. “Hey, speaking of queen—I could use a pair of pants like that.”
“Have mine,” Howie motions to his lap.
“That’s OK,” Rick says. “You know what the guys at the Sylvania plant would say to me if I walked in wearing those geisha girl pajamas?”
“Let’s find out!” Howie stands and, before anyone can say otherwise, pulls the white drawstring at his waist and lets the orange pants drop around his ankles.
“Oh, my God,” Mama whispers, horrified.
“Now it’s a party,” Frank delights.
“A singular experience, Mr. Cove,” Glovey says to Papa.
Amanda, Matty, Rebecca, and Greg squeal as Howie steps out of his pants and, conspicuously unhurried, walks around the table to present them to Uncle Rick.
“Thanks, you crazy freakin’ loon,” Uncle Rick shakes his head as Howie returns to his seat, naked from the waist down.
“You should all get used to seeing this anyway, people,” Howie says, pointing south. “Because you’re seeing the future.”
“I’v
e never seen anything like it,” Glovey Butler replies.
“Put your pants on,” Papa grumbles fiercely, eyeing Glovey and seeing how swiftly his victory has turned pyrrhic.
“Doesn’t pay,” Howie shakes his head. “But this does.” He pulls something from under his seat—a magazine with big yellow letters at the top and a picture of a brown-haired woman with a man in the lower right corner, resting his head on her shoulder, nuzzling her neck, and smiling. Howie opens the magazine, grabs the top of the page, and releases it, accordion style, to reveal a single photograph of … him.
Propped on his right elbow, half-smoked cigarette between his lips, long hair blowing back from his head, chest tanned and shiny, just speckled with hair, stomach contracted into a knobby washboard, legs spread and held apart by his left arm, bare knee pointing toward the ceiling, thick veiny pink penis, haloed by a spray of light brown pubic hair, pointing past his hip bone to the floor, and a golden ashtray—the only other prop in the scene.
I look at Carly. Her eyes have dried, whitened. She’s staring at Howie with that look of blissed-out love. I drop my head, inspect the soft little popover of my stomach. I look up again. And there he is, still naked. The room is silent.
“Meet Playgirl’s Man of the Month!” Howie does a game-show model kind of thing with his hand, keeping the centerfold in plain view. “I’m Mr. November. Glad to make your acquaintance.”
Part II
Exposé
Man of the Month
Uli and I sneak up to my room with a copy of the magazine, one of a half dozen Howie distributed to the Thanksgiving guests while Papa circulated cigars and digestifs in the break between dinner and dessert.
“I don’t really want to see naked guys,” Uli says as I flip through the pages, trying to find Howie’s section.
In one spread, there’s a guy who looks just like Frank. He’s got the bushy mustache, dark hair, and perpetual five-o’clock shadow. He’s wearing a white hardhat, white tank top, blue and white striped boxers, and he’s holding a huge chunk of watermelon that’s been bitten into a few times. Someone removed the seeds. But he’s much skinnier than Frank. And a second look at his boxers reveals that one side is riding higher up on his thigh than the other because there’s a huge boner under there. This section is called “Brief Encounters—It’s Underclothes That Make the Man.”
On the opposite page there are four more guys in underwear: white briefs, Tarzan leopard briefs, red and white briefs, and a pair of green briefs with a big silver dildo pointing out of the waistband. Each guy has a title: White is The Art Director. Leopard is Tarzan. Red and white is The Accountant. And green, with the Steely Dan, is The Swinger. The Art Director is wearing green argyle socks. They don’t match his underwear. On the next page are The Rock Star, The Swimmer, The Businessman, and The Producer. The final page is devoted entirely to The Jock. He’s wearing one, and he fills it massively.
I stumble onto another spread on page eighty-one. It’s innocent enough, nine profile shots labeled A through I. The guys all look different—a blonde, redhead, couple of mustaches. I can’t help but notice that four of the nine have perms. Apparently Papa is on to something.
It’s “Playgirl’s Haven’t I Seen You Someplace Before? Contest.”
“Who are these men?” the text reads. “And why do they look so pleasantly familiar? Turn the page. You’ll be glad you did.”
We do, and we’re not. There are nine numbered photos: eight dicks and one ass.
Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to match dongs with mugs. If we’re lucky, we’ll win a lifetime subscription to Playgirl!
There’s an entry blank below.
“Sick,” Uli turns away. I keep flipping. There’s an ad for a product called Caress. It doesn’t really say what Caress is, but there’s a photo of a woman holding a long rubber penis in her hands. Next to her black-and-white photo are the words “SOFT YET FIRM! Only $7.95.”
I continue on to the “bumper crop of gorgeous men” in the Guys Next Door section. It leads off with an Illinois striptease from David Shuster, twenty-three, of Peoria, Illinois. “David is crazy about outdoor sports. Obviously.”
Justin Wiener of Malibu, California, is walking down the beach naked. Gene Keefover from Glendale, Arizona, is “in the insurance biz.” He has a mustache, and he’s lying spread-eagle on an inflatable air mattress in the pool. Ryan Halley is in the shower. He’s twenty-two, from Dracut, Massachusetts, and he’d make any pilgrim woman blush.
“Hey,” says Uli. “My cousin lives in Dracut. I wonder if she knows him.”
Greg Hamilton, who apparently was a centerfold in June 1976, doesn’t seem to want to fade away so he sent in a snapshot of himself on his back deck. The head of his penis looks like a cherry bomb that someone taped to a sausage.
“Aauuuuuuggggghhhh!” Uli and I say in unison, pulling away from the page and laughing. “What happened to his dick? It’s disgusting,” Uli says and gags, returning to the picture like a pedestrian who almost stepped in the tangled entrails of roadkill.
How much time have I spent on this bunk, dissecting every nook and cranny of Barbi Benton? Monique St. Pierre? Debra Jo Fondren? All the Playboys I stole from Gramps’s guest bathroom … The Hustler I pinched from Howie … Suddenly, I am forced to wonder, does Grandma Wini have a bunch of Playgirls under the sink in the bathroom upstairs? Does Mama?
“Does your mom read this?” I ask Uli.
“No!” he punches my shoulder. “Disgusting. But I bet Frank does.”
“Ugh.”
“Seriously. It’s so gay.”
“No. This is for women. That’s the whole point.”
“I’m gonna throw up.”
“Hold on. It’s in here somewhere,” I promise.
“He’s the centerfold.” Uli frets, covering his eyes. “Just go to the middle!”
I do, and find Howie splayed naked before me, then flip back a few pages to the start of his section. There he is, left hand on hip, in a brown corduroy blazer and tight, umber corduroy pants cinched with a finger-thin, tan leather belt. A sweater pokes out from behind the wide lapels of his jacket, a busy pattern like something Grandma Charlotte might have crocheted into an afghan. The collar of Howie’s khaki shirt, unbuttoned, is so wide it reaches his clavicle. He wears a brown knit tie, loose, squared at the ends and speckled with white dots. His cheek and lips are pinker than in real life. His hair, heavily styled, seems caught in a light autumn breeze. The mouth of a beer bottle can just be seen poking up between his thumb and forefinger. It’s ringed with gold foil. Looking back at his left hand I notice his wedding ring has been removed. He’s smiling, but not too much. His skin is tan. His chest hair is wispy, not too thick. The gray background makes him pop off the page in his many shades of brown.
He looks like a star.
By Howie’s shoulder, in white and powder-blue letters that are nearly, but not quite, brushed by fluttering wisps of his hair, it says:
PLAYGIRL’S MAN OF THE MONTH—HOWIE GORDON.
Actor, Artist, Lover.
“It almost doesn’t look like him,” Uli cocks his head this way, then that. “Is he wearing makeup?”
In every way, Howie stands apart from the Guys Next Door. They are caught in a moment in the shower or on the beach by a girlfriend or neighbor, but Howie looks as if he has stepped off a movie set, nowhere near his Berkeley cottage or 31 Chestnut. He is the idealized Howie, the Howie of Dreams. Plastic but real. Corduroy but silky smooth. I imagine running my fingers through his hair.
On the next spread Howie lays on his side, propped on his right elbow, Lowenbrau in hand, still completely dressed. There’s a dog beside him, tail curled between its legs, skinny like a whippet, its coat yet another light shade of brown. Whose dog is that? I wonder. He doesn’t own a dog. Why would they make him pose with one?
There’s an interview with Howie in which he explains why November is the perfect month for him to appear in the magazine. “I’ve fallen p
assionately and madly in love with five women who were born the first week in November,” he reports, and then explains how it has something to do with his “chart.” Born May 5, 1948, double Taurus, Moon in Aries, six fire signs, two earth signs, and one air sign.
Who are the five women? What’s double Taurus, Moon in Aries, with all those signs? What signs?
Howie’s striptease takes place in three photo stages. It’s slow, taking two shots just to get his shirt off, though his pants are already unbuttoned and folded back a bit so you can see the inside whites of his pockets and a hint of pubic hair. The third shows him grabbing his cords by the back waistband and pushing them down an inch or two. The stem of his penis is visible, but it’s the articulated abs and squared chest muscles that catch my eye. His stomach is completely flat and there are carved lines at his hips that lead like riverbeds directly to his pelvis. This is why they wanted him. This is why women like him. This. And his crazy brain.
I touch my stomach reflexively, incapable of imagining my body hardening or sprouting, of any part of me strengthening or lengthening or thickening. I am just this. Soft and wheezy. For as long as I can remember.
On the next page Howie is really naked. There are three small photos at the top of the left-hand page. He’s standing in the first, taking off his last sock. Even though he’s bending over, and he’s looking straight into the camera with an expression that says, ready or not, here I come. His penis is kind of shadowed somewhere between his hunch and his raised knee, but you can tell it’s coming. In the second shot he’s kneeling down on the ground, back to the camera, looking over his shoulder, right into your eyes. His ass is shiny, like he’s wearing a lot of Coppertone oil. His elbow is on his raised knee.
“Is that the tip of his dick? Or is it one of his balls?” Uli’s finger touches the page, just below the dongle in question.
“I have no idea. Don’t touch it.”
In the third frame he’s standing straight up, hands on hips, elbows thrust backward, washboard sticking out, boner pointing toward another block of text.